Chapter Four Razor #3
This wasn’t about Tripper or Ghost’s dirty product.
This was The Yard. A place I’d only ever circled from the outside.
A place tugging on the same dark corners of me I paid to keep quiet.
And maybe, though I didn’t want to admit it, it was the same place that pretty boy from the alley might have come from.
Where he probably rounded up his clients.
So yeah, I was walking onto enemy ground.
But I was also walking into my own shadows.
And I didn’t know which would be harder to face.
Fuck it. I didn’t give myself room to think, and locked the Audi, shoving my hands in my pockets, and cut through the queue outside The Yard.
Bass rattled the glass, neon spilling out over the pavement, groups laughing, shirts already clinging with sweat.
The bouncer registered me, eyes narrowing.
We knew each other. He’d shifted gear off me before.
Surprise flickered, but he didn’t question it.
He knew what I was and refusing me meant no customers.
“Razor.” He tipped his chin once.
I fist bumped him and slid inside.
Heat swallowed me whole. So did the wall of bodies.
Sweat, perfume, poppers in the air, men pressed tight under strobing light.
My gut twisted, but I kept moving. Kept my head low, pretended I belonged.
At the bar, I ordered vodka. Neat. No ice.
Went down sharp, clean, the way I needed it.
Then I ordered two more. Drank them quickly to dull the edges of panic bleeding and carried one to the far corner, slid into a booth tucked back in the shadows where I could see the whole floor.
I had to remember this wasn’t about me. This wasn’t my time to embrace my cravings.
To walk into what should be mine. It was about Tripper.
I was here to find his runners, see who was moving, who was paying.
So I sat back in the shadows, let the vodka burn its way down, the glass sweating between my fingers, and kept my eyes on the floor as the night thickened.
After a while, the crowd shifted, parting to give me a straight line of sight right to the bar and along with it, a reason I didn’t fucking want.
Fuck.
Not now.
Not here.
But there he was.
The mess from the alley. Standing at the bar.
Though he wasn’t a mess anymore. He wasn’t the smirking, desperate boy with grit on his knees from last night.
No, tonight he was something else entirely.
Sharp, styled… dangerous enough to make my pulse jump.
With wide-leg trousers falling clean over triple-figure trainers, mesh top under a leather harness framing a lean, cut body and sandy-blond hair styled just so, catching the lights.
And those lips, full and soft, were fucking obscene.
He looked effortless. Chic.
Not Hackney. Not even the pretentious Shoreditch kind. Or the hipster Wick.
A different world. A different league.
My stomach flipped hard.
And in that moment, Tripper was gone from my head.
Couldn’t see anyone else if I tried. Maybe this was pretty boy’s hustle.
Start the night clean, trawling the room for clients who’d part with more than fifty quid for a quick suck in the dark.
And when that didn’t land, he’d slip back to the alleys, trade silk-sheet looks for concrete knees.
Because standing there now? He didn’t look built for gutters.
He looked as if he belonged in hotel suites, satin sheets, a boy cut out for luxury.
And, fuck me, I’d never wanted to make someone as filthy as I wanted to make him right then.
That weren’t me, though. I wasn’t the type to crave. I got my fix; I moved the fuck on. No itch worth scratching twice. But standing in that club, watching him? I couldn’t think of a single reason I shouldn’t have a second go.
Someone slid him a drink. Gin, vodka, something that burnt clean. He lifted it to his lips, and all I could think about was pressing my mouth to his, stealing it from him with tongues and breath, passing the fire back and forth.
I tried to look away. Honestly, I did. But my eyes stayed glued.
The bloke who handed him the drink melted back into the crowd, leaving him standing there alone. He drew in a breath, squared his shoulders as if bracing himself, then looked my way.
Saw me.
Fear, yeah. I saw it straight off. He wasn’t used to being here, or maybe it was me, the way I didn’t blink, refusing to look away.
I burnt my stare clean through the press of bodies, pinned it on him like a blade point.
Pretty little thing, caught in the crosshairs.
But there was more than fear. Fascination, perhaps.
Curiosity. I could almost taste the thump of his heartbeat; feel the way it kicked harder at me watching him.
Every twitch, every shift in him, I felt it as if it belonged to me.
It was the same rush I got when I had a runner on the ground, waiting for me to strike, fist cocked back but held still. The moment right before the blow, when the power’s mine and mine alone.
And staring at him across that room, I had that same rush.
Pretty boy lifted his glass, lips brushing the rim, gaze never leaving mine. He needed to keep watching to know when to run.
Then another bloke slid in. Slick shirt, drink dangling careless, leaning too close, mouth at his ear, and jealousy tore through me so fast it scorched.
I was on my feet before thought caught up, leather coat snapping behind me as I cut through the press of bodies.
The bass pounded my ribs, strobes split the dark, but I didn’t see the crowd, didn’t hear the music.
All I saw was him, pretty boy staring back at me, and that other fucker daring to breathe anywhere near him.
Mine. That’s what he felt like. Mine.
And I wasn’t about to let another man lay a hand on him.
If this prick wanted to test me, he’d get a taste of why they called me Razor. My name. My rep. Out on the street, no one moved in on my line.
And tonight, that line was him.